


Troublesome Youth

by Elmbird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, M/M, POV Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Sexual Content, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elmbird/pseuds/Elmbird
Summary: __________The summer after high school has been stretching itself out in front of Stiles like a bad joke. The chances for carefree fun got downgraded one friend at a time. The pack, well they fell off like dominos.By the fourth of July Stiles is the last man standing. Technically, there is still Derek, and sure there is a bond between the two of them, one built from mutually begrudging respect. At best, Derek can be allusive. He is a shadow that Stiles only sees when the lighting is right, or the moon is out.And tonight the moon is out...______
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 32
Kudos: 91





	1. Troublesome Youth

**Author's Note:**

> Heya,
> 
> Although, there are more characters (both dead and living) mentioned in the story than Derek and Stiles, I didn't feel like they were a big enough part of the story to be tagged. 
> 
> I'm always amazed when folks take the time to read the stories I post, so thank you a whole bunch for reading this one too!

Restless...

The summer after high school has been stretching itself out in front of Stiles like a bad joke. The chances for carefree fun got downgraded one friend at a time. The pack, well they fell like dominos…

Scott was the first to go. In a dangerous standoff his dad took a bullet to the leg, saved the day, but wasn’t very mobile when all was said and done. So, Scott got called away to LA, to help Mr. McCall out, and catch up on that father son bonding that was long overdue, like a solid decade overdue. And, Stile couldn’t blame Scott for going, but he could hate the timing of it. Two weeks into summer and his best-friend was gone for god knows how long. 

Lydia left only a few day later, but at least that was planned. Summer classes at Yale presenting the chance for her to get that academic upper-hand she loves so much. The romantic variety of love between Stiles and her was never going to last. They will, and always have been better as friends. She kissed him goodbye on the cheek, and his heart didn’t skip a beat, only swelled with pride.

Then, Peter took Malia to England. Not the kidnapping kind of, _took_ , but actually had bought two plane tickets with Malia’s consent. There are Hales in England, distant cousins. Distant cousin who probably have something Peter wants, but Malia was playing along to the tune of father daughter bonding, while slightly less wholesome than Scott and Mr. McCall making up for lost time it was still something. Plus, someone has to keep an eye on Peter, Stiles just wishes it was anyone else but her. They fought about it before Malia left, and she had accepted Stiles apology before he had even given it. He tried to explain to her that was not how apologies work, that in order to accept an apology someone has to give one first.

_“So, apologies to me already!”_

_“Oh my god! Fine, I’m sorry.”_

_“Good.”_

The last week of June is when Liam and Mason headed off to Lacrosse summer camp. 

By the fourth of July Stiles is the last man standing. Technically, there is still Derek, and sure there is a bond between the two of them, one built from mutually begrudging respect. At best, Derek can be allusive. He is a shadow that Stiles only sees when the lighting is right, or the moon is out.

Tonight the moon is out... 

Stiles dreamt of Allison last night, it’s not the first time, not by a long shot. The dreams aren’t something he tells anyone about. It’s a guilt he doesn’t want help burying, not with layers of, _‘The Nogitsune had you, Stiles.There was nothing you could do…” or, “What happened to Allison was beyond your control…”_ It’s something he both knows and doesn’t, a game of Chess, never _Go,_ he plays in his mind late at night against himself. It’s a game he looses, he will probably always loose. 

The dream is simple, pretty much always the same, nothing dramatic or pull at your heartstrings about it. It is just, Allison. She stands in the Preserve amongst the brush and trees, crossbow at her side. As she turns to face him, she says his name, “ _Stiles.”_ sweet bright smile on her face. The imagery of the dream flashes in his mind, like a flip-book, always starting over, never making it to the end.

 _“Stiles,”_ flip flip flips… “ _Stiles,”_ flip flip flip….

She says his name every way she ever said it; happy to see him, needing something, determined for him to give her an answer, giving a warning...

It’s a dream of her saying his name a hundred times in a hundred tones, all collect from the relatively short time they knew each other. It wasn’t even two full years, but he’s pretty sure he’ll dream about her until he’s old, weathered with wrinkles, and can’t see or hear worth shit. And she will forever be only seventeen. And he hates it. He hates it so much.

The summer gives Stiles space he didn’t ask for. His mind threatens to unspool, too much room to think has always been dangerous for him. Tonight his thoughts gallop, like they are trying to keep time with the horses of the Ghost Riders, only one hoof ever touching the ground at a time.

On the hood on the Jeep Stiles sits hunched over scrolling through the endless content, the screen of his cellphone illuminating his face in the dark of night. It’s not the best idea being out at the Preserve past midnight on his own, but his dad has night shifts for most a summer, and this is better than laying awake in his bed dreading what dreams may or may not come.

He came out here looking for trouble. Because trouble of the supernatural kind can fill up boatloads of time, and take up all his thinking space, but in the last few months Beacon Hills has become less of a beacon. There is something selfish, and definitely reckless about trying to fill… the void … trying to fill whatever this empty feeling is that has worked its way in, or woken under his skin. Maybe it’s a byproduct of being eighteen and having spent the last two years chasing what lurks in the shadow, only for there to finally be nothing left to chase after. 

Outside of his lacrosse uniform Stiles doesn’t wear shorts, his legs are too skinny in contrast to his broad shoulders. He’s not build like Danny and his boyfriend are. That’s where Stiles is currently at; in the late night, surrounded by nature, tall trees, lush ground with moss covered rocks, and he is fixated on Danny’s instagram page. Two hundred and fifty-seven posts, and twenty-four of those pictures are of the happy couple that made it official sometime in May, judging by the date on the first photo of the two handsome guys arm in arm. Danny’s dad got transferred by his job to the Big Island before their senior year, and Stiles maybe had a curiosity crush on him starting in their sophomore year. A curiosity crush that lead to Stiles looking at gay porn for the first time, and not the last time. If he was Lydia, and more interested in numbers and math he might try and pie chart his porn viewing over the last three years. If he was to guess, say off the top of his head it probably breaks down to; sixty-five precent straight, thirty precent dude on dude, and five percent other.

Technically, Stiles _had_ looked at gay porn one time before Danny got his curiosity really going, but he hadn’t _seen_ what he was looking at. All alone in his bedroom at fifteen Stiles hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that he had an audience, or that the men on the other side of the computer screen were actually looking back at him, judging him in his flustered embarrassment. The first time he looked he had slammed his laptop closed at the first sight of a hard uncut dick. Quickly bolted up from his desk to peer out his bedroom windows and make sure the nonexistent noisy neighbors hadn’t caught him doing the deed. Then he stuck his head out of his bedroom door into the hallway and called out to make sure his dad wasn’t home knowing for full well that he had left for work hours before. For all intensive purpose he had been the kid in the swimming pool knowing that there was no shark, but kept a look out for one anyways. 

When at sixteen Stiles had finally mustered up the courage to actually look he had realized that underneath the leather jacket and non-stop brooding Derek probably looked like one of those guys when laid out as bare as they were. Muscle as good as cut from stone, body thick with strength. It was information Stiles hadn’t wanted his mind to freely supply him with while he was trying to get off. He hated Derek for his own mind’s doing. He advertised his distaste for him hoping it would hide the cause that further spurred it on, an unwanted desire. He had wanted anyone else; Danny or Lydia, just anyone besides the big bad sour-wolf.

On principle, Stiles was willing to dislike Derek forever, but forever is along time, and not everyone gets that kind of time. Allison, Boyd, and Erica… Stiles knows too many people who didn’t. The list just got too long for him to continue to hate Derek. Maybe finding out about Paige had helped to soften his stance too. Both him and Derek have the blood of dead young women on their hands. A trait Stiles had never thought they’d share when Peter first served at the unreliable narrator to the story of tragic young love.

Stiles gives up staring at his phone with a huff, drops back to lay on the hood of the Jeep, back cracking as he goes. The stars are bright overhead, they stretch out to cover his entire field of vision, except where the few way up tree branches block them out. He is no less restless, but here is where he is at. He came out here looking for trouble. The three finger pour a whisky he put in his water bottle might just get him that trouble he is looking for if his dad figures out he skimmed off the halfway full, now half way empty bottle of liquor.

The last sipof whisky burns in a way that makes Stiles shake against the hood of the Jeep, body shimmying and then settling as the warmth spreads out into his limbs. It’s not enough for him to be drunk, not at the pace he has been drinking it. It still feels good, though. He closes his heavy eyelids to the feeling, body relaxing, muscle loosing tension. Swears it is just for a moment, but then he hears his name, _“Stiles,”_ and he is jerking awaking, and jerking back up into a sitting position as soon as his eyes register that Derek’s face is blocking what had been his view of the starry night sky.

Derek steps back before Stiles can headbutt him in his rush to sit up. 

“It’s three o’cock in the morning. Why are you out here, Stiles?” He demands, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Why are you out here?” Stiles parrots back in an indignant tone. So much more of a child than he wants to be. Not in front of Derek, anyways. Under the werewolf’s watchful gaze Stiles tries to school his features going for neutral, and uncaring that the night is almost morning. He tugs at the hem of his shirt like it needs to be straightened, when really it’s just his limbs looking for a way to work out the uptick of his buzzing nerves.

“It’s almost a full moon.” He plainly states with an unwavering hard gaze that still is boring into Stiles, “And, you would be out here, because?”

Because he is, alone. Because after everything there is no happy endings. He has helped save this town and was the vessel for it’s almost destruction, and he is not sure how to live anymore if he’s not being pulled into some mess. Maybe college will help with all these feelings filling him up, but he has two months to make it through to get there and he’s not so sure he is going to make it. This isn’t how it was suppose to be. He was suppose to be here, with his friends, his rag tap pack, making up for lost time, beingteenagers in the way that got away from all of them when they took on the responsibility of keeping Beacon Hills safe.

Stiles sways, fingers latch on to the edge of the metal hood trying to keep himself from toppling head first to the ground at Derek’s feet. His breathing is too fast, the breaths he draws in too shallow. But, then who is his to complain at least he is alive, because Allison, and so many others sure aren’t. And, no matter what anyone says he had a hand in it all. 

_Flip, flip, flip…._

He can’t make it to a full breath before he is trying to take another one.

“Stiles?” Derek steps forward, uncrossing his arms, a hand pressing at the front of Stiles’ rightshoulder, helping to keep him anchored like an oversized hood ornament. The touch makes him run hot. He wants to shrug it off, but he wants to not face-plant more. 

No point in lying, “Trouble, I came out here looking for trouble.” He pants it out.

“What the hell is that suppose to mean, _Stiles_?" Derek is clearly confused, both by the answer and the honesty of it. 

His skin prickles, the sound of his own name creeps up his spine, making his heart beat too fast, “Don’t say my name like that.” He pretty much begs. Because, Derek has a way of saying his name that is too much for tonight. Too much when Allison said it a hundred times last night, and what would Derek think about him dreaming of his best-friend’s dead girlfriend who in someways he helped kill.

“Like what?” Derek carefully asks, eyes sharply watching, jaw drawn tight, concern touching his brow. Moonlight making him look too handsome to be real.Stiles needs him to be real, doesn’t want this moment to be a waking dream that will chase him around come daytime. Derek’s eyes flicker down to catch the movement of Stiles’ shaky hand reaching out to touch at the leather covering his breastbone. There are no dark eyebrows being raised at his touch or glaring eyes communicating that a boundary has be crossed. Derek’s gaze flicks back up to meet Stiles’ eyes, “Say it like what, St-.”

There is a gentler side to Derek now, one that wasn’t there when they first met. This moment would be so much easier, Stiles thinks, if there wasn’t that side. It would be so much easier to rebuke that hard edge if somehow Derek hadn’t softened it in a way only he can achieve.

Sitting on the hood of the Jeep gives Stiles the only advantage he is going to have in this moment, a few inches of height. Derek stand between his legs, shins touching the metal bumper, hand on his shoulder, looking up into his eyes like he is looking for signs of life from Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t hear it, not over the sound a blood rushing in his ears, he watches Derek’s lips part, his name beginning to push past them again. It’s a split second decision made out of nowhere and out of everything all at the same time. It’s a gift from Lydia, one that goes beyond when it was originally bestowed. Stiles pushes forward to press his lips to Derek’s lips. Lighting fast out of the gate. All his mind can offer up is, _brace for impact_.

Under the tips of Stiles’ fingers pushed into Derek’s chest he feels the werewolf startle at the kiss. The hand that had been on his shoulder shoots up to grasp tight at the nape of his neck. One moment can change everything, of all people, Stiles should know. Since that first night of chasing death in the woods Stiles has been living one life changing moments after another. For one long moment Derek kisses him back by not breaking the kiss, by holding him there, keeping their lips pressed together. Heat spread through his limbs, warming him better than the whisky did. Through his fingertips he can feel Derek’s chest expand with the deep breath he slowly inhales. He is breathing the moment in, so is Stiles. When the kiss finally breaks they are left to exhale shakily into the night.

Stiles came looking for trouble, he probably just have found it in spades.


	2. For Your Viewing Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, a big thanks to everyone being so supportive of me continuing on with this story, and making something more of it! Seriously, you all made my day. 
> 
> PS. I usually don't write this fast. I highly doubt the next chapter will be posted as quickly.

It is awkward. It’s all sorts of amazing, spectacular awkwardness, made even better by Derek’s part in the whole thing. That might be the best part, actually. Because, Stiles kissing Derek was one thing, but Derek holding on through the kiss was another. He held on long enough for it to count as kissing Stiles back. And, now, less than twenty-four hours later, there is a werewolf in Stiles’ bedroom, looking like he has no idea what do with himself.

The almost full blow panic attack from last night has Stiles somewhere between worn-out and worn thin, and in someways docile. The energy to exchange quick verbal jabs with Derek, not quite within him, not that a battle of wits is what he is looking for at this moment. He slouches a little more in his computer chair and lulls his head to the side to give a, _I’m waiting_ expression to Derek, who climbed through his bedroom window a full minute ago and still hasn’t said anything.

With arms crossed over his chest and a wide stance, like he is guarding himself, Derek stands in Stiles’ bedroom as though it is way more dangerous than just a teenager’s messy bedroom. The werewolf looks frustrated and cagey, almost like he doesn’t trust the situation or, maybe even himself. He keeps his eyes mostly to the floor, only chancing a glance up to Stiles every twenty seconds or so.

When abruptly Derek finally speaks, it makes Stiles give a little jump in surprise, computer chair slightly rocking with the quick movement.

“Whatever that was last night. You need to talk to someone about it.” Leave it to Derek to break the silence without breaking the awkwardness by basically barking orders at Stiles. 

Derek isn’t completely wrong, though. Stiles could jest and question if he is talking about the kiss. See if he can make a werewolf blush, but the heavy counterpart of last night still holds weight. He was having one of the more sizable freak-outs he has had since his mom died all those years ago. All those years sometimes only feel like yesterday. It is a daunting feeling, to the mind time is never linear. Tomorrow is already yesterday, and Stiles is wasting away.

Letting out a big annoyed sigh Stiles answers, “You have any good recommendations for a shrink, who is well versed in the traumas of the supernatural? Because, I’m pretty sure going to see someone, and having to lie my way through an explanation of what the last two years have been like is only going to add baggage to my already considerable load.” 

The slight tilt of Derek’s head tells Stiles he was expecting him to lead with the kiss, was expecting it packaged in Stiles’ usual brand of sarcasm. Eyes narrowing, slowly Derek answers, suspicion at the edge of his voice, “No, but, Deaton might.”

“Ah, yes, the good Vet.” Stiles says while drumming his fingers on the arm of his computer chair. Finally he swivels the chair away from the desk to face Derek dead on, eyeing him up and down. No leather jacket today, which is fine, the t-shirt he is in shows off his arms and does nothing to hide the muscles of his chest.It’s as good of a distraction as Stiles has ever seen, “Anything else?” Stiles questions, there is an invitation he can’t help letting seep into his tone, it brings a flush to his own cheeks that Derek can probably smell. Copper in the blood, resting just below the surface of delicate flesh. For a second he imagines himself a werewolf treat, bitesize.

“ _Don’t_.” The pious pinch of Derek’s mouth tells Stiles that he is well aware of his not so subtle ogling, and heard the invite as clear as the summer day is bright.

Stiles blinks and looks back at the screen of his laptop, there are three tabs showing at the top of his browser. Two pages of research covers the first page of porn. If Derek had decided to be a creeper an hour earlier and came climbing through his bedroom window then, he would have arrived just in time to catch him chasing after release, masturbating hard and fast, fist moving quickly and hips bucking harshly to the thought of being under Derek.

“ _Don’t_ , what? Sit here and try to converse with a relatively grumpy and uncommunicative creature of the night? Who, by the way let himself into my room.” Those might be his words, but his mind is chanting, _we kissed, we kissed…, and I want to be reckless._

“I know what I did last night,” Derek concedes, like it pains him to, or he feels some sort of guilt, “but, that’s not why I’m here.”

Stiles momentarily frowns, and shoots Derek an irritated glance. He chooses to ignore the second part of Derek’s statement in favor of the first, “You mean, hauling me off the hood of my car, and driving me back home?” Is his answer, because playing this game of chicken is the kind of high Stiles can’t stay away from, and he knows it is driving Derek crazy. Mostly thought, he wants Derek to be the one to bring up the kiss even if he is the one who started the kissing.

“ _Stiles_.” Derek warns with flared nostrils.

It’s the name he chose for himself fashioned from his last name. No one can even come close to pronouncing his given first name, except for Scott. Moments of surprising capability is one of Scott’s specialties. The dude who’s user namer and password had both been, Allison, knows how to pronounce Mieczyslaw, making him one of three people in total who do.

Stiles never imagined how evocative it could be when he constructed Stiles from Stilinski. Over the course of Derek and him knowing each other it has sounded like a lot of things coming off of Derek’s lips, but today in this moment it hinges somewhere between a warning and a plea. The plea part is interesting, sends a little spark down his spine, and leaves a slight aftertaste of power in his mouth. He’s not sure how to use that power though. That’s the only problem. Kissing Derek was one thing, pushing for more is another.

That restless feeling is back crawling under Stiles’ skin. He use to want to return to the safer times of the pre-werewolf days, he still wants that safety for the ones he loves, but this restlessness he has been feeling is making him question what he wants for himself. What happened to the recklessness of youth, where the hell did his go? Or better yet, why did he have to sacrifice what so many authors wax poetic about to the terrors of the night. This is the last summer he gets before he has to leave for college, and start being whatever it is he is suppose to be. He should be spending the summer with his friends getting at least of glimpse of wild abandon or some shit remotely close to it. Instead he is left here in Beacon Hills with one lonely werewolf, who more often than not has a stick up his ass. 

Derek is reading him, Stiles knows it. Is reading his rabbiting heartbeat, his warming scent, his eyes that keep shifting between the computer screen and back to the increasingly worried looking werewolf. It’s the kind of worried face that someone makes only after they realize they have step on a boobytrap, and have nowhere to go. The realization propels Derek into speaking again, “You’re not listening to me. I came here for more than one reason…”

What Stiles is about to do is not a fully thought out thought by any means, no it is more of throwing caution into the wind type, hair-trigger decision than anything. With intent that is closer to making a decision of throwing one’s self off the side of cliff, he deliberately reaches out and clicks close the two research pages. He knows what image is left up on the remaining page; a paused video of two naked men tangled together, one bows his head in pleasure while the other throws his back. The image has the beauty and grace of Greek statues carved out of marble while freely showing the depths of homosexuality that those statutes only allude too. He studied the paused frame after cleaning up his come covered stomach, transfixed by the intimacy. Usually, pausing porn only makes for some laughable shots, just, not this time.

Stiles isn’t looking at the computer screen he is watching Derek, who’s face contorts in surprise, not disgust, which makes him let the breath he had been holding out in rush. Chances are pretty high Derek hasn’t seen porn before. If anything maybe in a magazine, but Stiles highly doubts the older man has ever surfaced the web looking to get off. He has troubles with technology and being uptight, neither trouble are werewolf things, both are just, Derek things.

Does Derek see the beauty in the image on the screen? Stiles think maybe he does, because there is an extended heartbeat where everything feels weightless. Derek’s very human eyes, which Stiles has never had any idea what color to call them; blue, or grey, or hazel, roam over the two men tangle in embrace. Stiles sees the flash of recognition Derek has when he understand how one is deep inside the other, hips caught at the end of a hard thrust. That recognition make Stiles burn hot and ache. He watches as Derek tips his head back and breaths in deep, nostrils flaring, chest expanding. It’s his scent Derek is breathing in, his overly aroused, somewhat panicky scent that is shooting off pheromones like it’s the fourth of July.

With his eyes locked on Derek, Stiles is realizing he just went cannonballing over the edge of a cliff with no idea as to what is at the bottom, or how far of a fall it is going to be to get there. And, judging by the icy werewolf blue eyed gaze Derek turns to him with, Stiles is pretty sure he took Derek over the edge with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, I'm a little nervous about the direction I'm taking this story. I really don't want to disappoint anyone, specially cause you all have been awesome. With that being said, I hope everyone liked this last chapter. And, feedback is always cool.


	3. Savory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot plot plot... but to the sound effect of dun dun dun. 
> 
> This chapter is more plot heavy, and less Derek and Stiles centric. Still, I hope everyone enjoys and if so inclined feel free to leave a comment letting me know what you think. The feedback has been awesome thus far, and keeps me going!

A picture is worth a thousand words. Lying awake in bed Stiles tries to think of all the words he gave Derek without saying a single thing. He might have even said somethings he didn’t know he needed to say. That is the easiest way to think of it. When he thinks of it in the much more stark way he can feel himself heat up, a warm flush hits his cheeks turning them to what he knows is a bright splotchy red. He showed Derek porn, not just any porn, but gay porn that he had been getting off to less than an hour before the werewolf came creeping into his bedroom. Stiles scrubs at his warm face in embarrassment, and groans out into his room sounding like a wounded animal that had gotten wounded by its own stupidity. Dumb horny teenager: natural habitat messy room, state ofhorny teenager; soaked in needy desperation.

The situation felt akin to that time at Beacon Memorial when Stiles in moment of bravery spurred on by baseball bat in hand had turned back to take said wooded baseball bat over the head of Ethan and Aiden’s merged alpha form. The intention was in his mind brave, but the outcome was decidedly not in his favor, like at all. He still remembers the gut dropping moment when the bat had exploded on contact into a splintery mess of wooden confetti leaving him empty handed. This time Stiles had been left achingly hard and totally disappointed both feeling peppered with embarrassment that still stings all these hours later. 

Within the few short seconds it had taken Derek to cross the distance between them, and lean over to take hold of the computer chair on either side of Stiles’ head his fags had dropped and claws came out in addition too is werewolf icy blues. Caged in his computer chair Stiles had been sitting between the very definition of bulging biceps. All that muscle had been at his eye level. He found himself aching and hard despite Derek growling out the least sexy sentence that he could have imagined, _“What reason did Malia give for Peter taking them England?”_

Stiles hadn’t known where to look as he processed Derek’s out of context question. It hadn’t fit in with the awkwardness coated in sexual desire that he had basically been drowning in. While he mind spun around like a top, Stiles’ eyes kept darting from Derek’s piercing blue gaze, to his biceps, then down to his noticeably hard cock standing out in definition under black jeans, and then back up to his face, which had a look balanced between tortured want and plain infuriated. Derek had been hard, angry, and wolfed out, the scent of arousal must have been coming off of Stiles like an advertisement of restless teenage need.

 _“Distant cousins!? Something about a meet and greet with the English side of the Hale clan.”_ Stiles had answered in a rushed while squirming in the chair, his own hard-on had been pressed uncomfortably up against his jeans. 

_“We don’t have distant cousins in England, Stiles!”_

_“…Oh - my - god! I hate your uncle so much!”_

The bright shine of moonlight washing into Stiles’ room from the almost full moon isn’t helping to quiet his mind. He scrubs at his face again, blunt nails drag down to his throat to press at his collarbone. With two clicks of closing pages he admitted to what? Wanting sex - with men - with Derek? Or, maybe some heavy petting to test the waters first. He could be good with heavy petting, or just something, _anything_. Anything to take away this restless feeling that won’t leave him alone.

And, screw Peter, who is thousands of miles away and still stole the show with his non-stop scheming. Always scheming, the dude is always scheming. He is the schemer of all schemer. Someone get the man a crown. Peter Hale, King of all the schemers.

Stiles rolls onto his side with aggression that a person shouldn’t have this late at night. His mind circles back around to Derek. In the moment they had both been hard, him and Derek at the same time. Not that it matters. There are aches that are left to ache, things in life that are left unsatisfied. It is a flavor Stiles is all too familiar with.

There isn’t going to be any rest for him tonight, and there is no point in continuing to lay in the mess of kicked around sheets and blankets only to be undoubtably awake for the hours leading into morning. Stiles knows this game; chasing sleep is a recipe for driving himself crazy that he doesn’t have the energy to bake up tonight. Letting out a long groan he swings his bare feet over the side of his bed and gets up.

He dresses by moonlight, not caring if his socks match, or how the long-sleeved plaid goes with whatever t-shirt he throws on. He’s got no one to impress. Certainly not Derek, who hightailed it back out the bedroom window from which he came as soon as he got the information he was looking for. 

Lingering in the doorway of his bedroom, for a moment Stiles forgets he passed the milestone that welcomed him into supposed adulthood, eighteen. He guesses there is a difference now, leaving the house in the late hours of the night is no longer sneaking out. Still, he is quiet as he tip toes downstairs and into the kitchen to scribble a note for his dad before he goes.

The part of the persevere that overlooks the how far Beacon Hills stretches out is probably Stiles’ favorite part of the vast wooded area. It’s also on the opposite side from where the torn down remnants of the Hale house once stood. He came out here to try and escape himself and his own spinning thoughts. Looking at the city lights off in the distance might help. With his feet up on the hood the windshield becomes his back rest. The city lights dot the dark horizon in yellows and oranges, the sounds of night a quiet hum in the background. Outside of Stiles’ head it is a peaceful night. Inside, the memory of last summer is still clear;with a map laid out on the hood of the Jeep, plans were made in this spot by Scott and him. Part of that plan was how they were going to spend the summer before college. It was suppose to be awesome…

Cutting quickly through his thoughts is the sound of his phone chiming in his pocket. For a second his mind offers up that it could be Derek, but as quickly common sense tells him not to count on it. His common sense is right, Malia’s name pops up on the screen. It had only made sense to text her about the bogus reason Peter used to take them to England.

**No cousins. but I thought we already established that he was up to something.**

Stiles frowns at the bright screen, he has never liked how off-the-cuff she can be about possibly dangerous situations. Jabbing at the screen he types out his reply with frustration made from more than just her response.

**We did. just keep an eye on him. like a really really close eye.**

He hits send. Staring at the bright screen he holds out in front of his face, Stiles has to wonder what excuse Peter came up with to explain away the lack of extended family to Malia that’s left her so unbothered. On the screen three little dots bounce up and down as she types out her response. With his free hand Stiles drums his fingers on his chest, matching the pace of the dots.

The phone chimes again.

**Why didn’t you tell me about venison pie and this thing called blood pudding?**

Scoffing in defense is his first response, because that’s just great, on top of everything his carnivorous ex-girlfriend has an ax to grind with him about dietary choices…

…Okay, maybe it is his own fault. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed so much pizza on her. Better yet, who was he to try and make her more human and less werecoyote?

Stiles swallows hard, can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Had he been trying to help her adapt, or had he been treating her like a thing that needed fixing? An exacerbated noise escapes him as he lets his head fall back to thunk against the windshield. A thought flickers in his mind, one that’s flickered there before, he closes his eyes to it, pain swells in his chest. What if some of what he had done to try and help Malia adjust to her humanity had been a way to atone for Allison’s death? It had been so easy to focus on Malia, and channel all his energy into helping her because he couldn’t help Allison. That need to right what he - what the nogitsune did was so strong it felt like it was going to eat him alive.

If that is the case, he cheated both Allison and Malia. Those things weren’t interchangeable. Humanity in exchange for a death can’t be treated as a form of currency, and deep down Stiles might have tried to do just that.

With a shaky hand he quickly types.

 **Yeah. You’re right.my bad.**

After a delay.

**Stiles**

A single world response. His name. And, he can hear the concern laced through it, turning it, make it less his name and more of a synonym. He is so ready for his name to stop holding hidden meaning. For it to be as bland at Scott, or Liam, or Mason, or fuck, anyone’s else’s name.

Stiles’ breathing is picking up, cold sweat breaks out on his skin prickling into goosebumps. Heart pounding in his ears he is dropping off the hood of the Jeep to the ground not even realizing he had started the process of getting down until his knees buckle under him as soon at his feet touch the ground. Palms push into mossy gravel as he tries to stop himself from fully collapsing.

There is no one here to kiss this time. It’s the stupidest thought, one he has no right too, not after everything he has done, but he thinks it all the same. Atonement, his fingertips are pushing past the gravel and into the earth trying to find what is not there, and maybe not his to have. He thinks about Derek’s strong hand on the back of his neck keeping him in place, keeping their lips pressed together. It’s a light in the murky swirl of his mind as he goes under. 

In the bright light of morning Stiles feels hollowed out. At this point he is pretty much an empty shell behind the wheel of the Jeep. He is accustomed to this empty feeling post panic attack, doesn’t make it feel any better, thought. Driving down Beacon Hills’ waking Main Street he is heading to the Animal Clinic. The bright shine of morning sun reflecting off the windows of opening coffee shop and bakeries is a little too cheerful. Stiles’ grip on the steering wheel tightens, there is dirt under his nails. 

On the passenger seat next to him there is a leather jacket. It belongs to Derek. Stiles had woken with sore limbs and a groan of discomfort in the cool hours of a fresh day. The ground under his ass and the tire at his back both solid reminders of how hard the night had been. Slowed by jumbled wakefulness it had taken him a moment to notice that hanging off one shoulder had been the jacket draped over him like a blanket. He ran his hand over it, petted the leather as his mind caught up. Derek had been there. At some point in the night Derek had found him and in his own emotionally stunted way kept him warm.

It’s not even nine in the morning yet, Stiles wasn’t sure if Deaton would be in this early, but as he round the corner onto the quiet street where the Animal Clinic is he sees a supply truck parked in front of the building.

Stiles is pulling up next to the truck when his phone chimes. The werewolf’s ears must have been ringing because the text is from Derek. 

**You haven’t been to see Deaton yet.**

Stiles is too annoyed to answer. Pocketing his phone he’ll text Derek back later, when he has better idea of what to say.

Stiles finds Deaton around back out in the sunshine with a clipboard in hand surround by stacks of boxes needing to be wheeled into the building through the service door. When he looks up from the clipboard he doesn’t look surprised to see Stiles, but his eyes do narrow as he takes in the state of him. Stiles has a pretty good idea of what he looks like this morning, and it’s not a pretty sight. He is dirty, knees as well as the butt of his pants show his time on the ground, then there are the circles under his eyes… messy hair…maybe Stiles should just skip the inventory of his current state while he is ahead. 

Deaton finishes talking with the delivery guy before he comes over to where Stiles has been hanging back and waiting. 

Stiles gives a nod, “Hey Doc.” 

“Mr. Stilinski, I wasn’t expecting you this early. I hope that means you found something of use.” He says while tucking the clipboard under his arms.

The looks on the vets face is one of expectation which is maybe tripping Stiles up more than what he actually said. Stiles’ own face is doing something that causes the look of hopefulness to quickly slip from Deaton’s. The older man quietly lets out a disapproving sigh, "Derek didn’t speak with you, did he?”

Quickly, Stiles jumps on the moment, heart beating in relief, because he hadn’t thought through what he was actually going to say to the vet about his metal health stuff, baggage, whatever,“I mean, no. But, hey, here I am,” He wills himself to smile, albeit he’s not sure it is a convincing smile, “Helpful is my middle name. So, what’s cracking?”

Deaton eyes him again with certain kind of suspicion before beckoning him to follow, “Please, come inside.”

They stand in the exam room, the exam table between them. It is the usual place they discuss the freaky-deaky happens of this town. No, Batcave for them, just a veterinary’s clinic with a side of special sauce contained in glass jars.

“What is cracking,” Deaton parrots back to Stiles with a flat tone that carries through into his explanation, “Is a misplaced hex. One that can not be undone until the elements to fulfill it have passed.”

Well, that sounds annoying more than anything, Stiles thinks. “Okay, can we start with who has been accidentally hex?” He air quotes the, _accidentally_ , and doesn’t bother to ask more, because why waste what little energy he has by playing twenty question with the allusive veterinarian.

“Derek, and unfortunately he is running out of time. That is why I suggested he speak to you. Given your confusion early, am I to assume he hasn’t? ”

“Yeah, that would be a big, nope.” The _p,_ pops past Stiles’ lips. He crosses his arms in frustration, fingers tapping out an irritated rhythm on his biceps. “Any chance we can skip our usually little song and dance by cutting to the chase? You know, like by you passing along any and all information you have pertaining to this?”

"That would be wise as the full moon is tonight.” Deaton says as he turns to set the clipboard down where some on his supplies are kept, and reach for a small glass jar of what Stiles recognizes as mountain ash. He turns back to set the glass jar on the exam table in front of Stiles before continuing, “The hex was intended for Peter. It appears he was having romantic relations with a woman whose sister is well versed in the elements of the supernatural. I believe it is safe to say the relationship did not end well. She, the sister mistook Derek for Peter, and only realized her mistake after the hex was placed.” 

Stiles fights the sudden smile that is pulling at the corner or his mouth in amusement. That must have been all sorts of awkward as it went down. Stiles wouldn’t want to be the one to accidentally hex the sourwolf, although he might have paid to watch it happen. He waves for Deaton to continue, schooling his features as he does so. 

“In the light of tonight’s full moon, and tonight’s full moon alone, Derek will turn feral. Given everything, it is reality simple; Derek must be kept out of the light of this full moon for the entire duration of the night. In addition the location must be on a telluric current. You have until sun down to find a suitable place and get Derek there.”

Feral Derek, great. That’s just so great. Stiles has to ask, “If it’s so simple why aren’t you doing it.”

“I wish I could be of more help. As you saw,” He gestures in the direction of the stacks of boxes waiting out back to be inventoried, “With Scott gone for the summer I have a great deal more to do.”

Yeah, Scott kind of did leave the Doc high and dry. Stiles can’t imagine it’s easy to find an assistant who is up to speed on all that lurks in the shadows of Beacon Hills. 

Stiles snatches the glass jar of mountain ash off the table, gives it a shake, fingers tingling with the task at hand, “Looks like I’m on the clock," He takes a few backward steps towards the door, eager to set things in motion, "Don’t worry I’ll get Derek somewhere moonlight free for the night.” 

“Good, and remember this full moon will have a greater pull on him than usual.” A concerned smile spreads on Deaton’s face, “One more thing, Stiles. Whatever you actually came here for, know that my door is always opened.”

Stiles nearly trips over his own feet as he take one more step back. He sucks in a deep breath, like he has been stung, eyes dart to the ground trying to guard himself. There’s no point, though. Looking back up he asks, “What if I don’t know where to start?”

“When you do, I’ll be here.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles’ converse hit the pavement of the parking lot in five seconds flat.

It’s a hundred times easier to flee, a hundred times easier to be solving someone else’s problem rather than looking at his own. 


End file.
